Elegy For My Poor Deceased Printer

I had a long relationship with my now defunct printer. She was a temperamental character, unique in her ways. When her ink pump failed and she began leaking black ink, I knew she was slipping from this world and into another dimension. CPR failed to resuscitate her - and I grieved.

I was reluctant to let her go. After she breathed her last print job, she sat in her place for a week, her plug pulled from the wall. And I dreamt about her passing.

My dear deceased printer. She gave me excellent photographic prints, suitable for exhibition. Printed copies of manuscripts and poetry that were "in process" and in need of a sharp editing eye. Small photos used for writing classes. Copies of articles to pass on to students and writer-colleagues.

Some days I took her for granted. I turned to acknowledge her only when I reached for finished pages from her printer tray. But there were other days when she asserted herself. In one way or another, she placed obstructions in my way as if to remind me of the importance of her existence.

One of her ink levels would run out while printing a photograph - ejecting an unusable mess and then refusing to print anything at all. Wasting expensive photo paper and colored inks.

And the paper jams that were the bane of my writing life. When she sat idle for several days, it was inevitable that the first printing job of the day would jam up the works in her belly. Necessitating removal of  the "whatchamacallit" in the back and carefully extracting mangled paper - sometimes needing a tweezers and flashlight to extract the last little bits of chewed-up paper.

At some point a year or two ago, she managed to break off one of the little plastic tabs that guided the paper. When I fished it out of her innards, I thought it was the end of her. But she was a tough one, and behaved exactly as she had when I welcomed her into my study. That plastic tab is all I have now to remind me of her.

Her timing was impeccable when she chose to create some problem. When I wanted something printed to take with me as I was about to rush out of the door, she would thumb her nose at me. Then she would engage in some original act that would make me late for wherever I was going.

Sometimes I threatened her when she was too recalcitrant. I would tell her I was going to put the magenta ink container in the yellow slot. But I never did - because I knew that I would suffer more than she would.

My relationship with her taught me a lot of things. Patience was at the top of the list. Followed by recognition and respect of other's unique identities. I learned to praise her excellent performance and not to take her for granted. She clearly was her own distinct self - not simply some mechanical extension of me, indentured to do my bidding. Good lessons to extend into my human relationships.

Now her replacement sits in her place. Black and hulking and unattractive. The new beast reminds me of perched vultures, scanning for carrion. And it can just sit there as far as I am concerned. I refuse to plug it in or install it on my computer.

I know I will have to make my peace with this upstart. A writer without a printer is a bit like losing a writing hand.

But one must observe a decent interval for grieving the loss of a dear friend.